The Temple & the World

Psalm 65 (Greek and Latin, 64) is not easy to take in at first, because it
contains so many disparate elements the mind does not readily join together.
For example, there is an initial impression that the psalm’s topography
is confused. It begins in Jerusalem: “Thou, O God, art praised in Sion;
and unto thee shall the vow be performed in Jerusalem” (Coverdale Psalter).
Although the psalmist is happy, for a few verses, to “dwell in thy court” and “be
satisfied with the pleasures of thy house, even of thy holy temple,” the
psalm rather soon moves to wider spaces, referring to those who “dwell
in the uttermost parts of the earth.”

If the place of this prayer is unclear, so is the time: “Thou that
makest the out-goings of the morning and evening to praise thee.” Although
the liturgical usage of Holy Church rather early decided to make this a morning
psalm, its general sense is by no means tied to the morning.

The mood of the psalmist changes, too. At first, he seems overwhelmed by
his sins: “My misdeeds prevail against me: O be thou merciful unto our
sins.” Before long, nonetheless, he turns his attention to the moral
failings of others, speaking of “the madness of the peoples.”

Much of this psalm revels in the wonder of nature, the strength of the mountains,
the raging of the seas, and the rain falling “into the little valleys.” Unlike
so many of the “nature psalms,” however, Psalm 65 begins indoors,
so to speak—under the porticos of the temple. The psalmist commences,
not out on the mountaintop—“Who in his strength setteth fast the
mountains”—but in the holy place at Jerusalem.

It is almost impossible to imagine the psalmist standing in the temple and
bewailing his sins, without thinking of that Publican of the parable, who went
up to the temple to pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” When
we remember this publican, however, we do not readily associate him with prayers
inspired by nature. In the experience of most of us, these points of attention
are very different and somewhat alien.

One suspects many modern people would be content to go right to the latter
half of Psalm 65, in which the wonders of nature are transformed into images
of human abundance: the “fatness” dropping from the clouds, the
folds full of sheep, the valleys thick with corn, and the “little hills” rejoicing
on every side. These themes of beauty and abundance are attractive in any age.

For the religious taste of many modern people, however, beauty and abundance
can pretty much stand on their own, as it were. There is little or no perceived
need to relate these themes of nature to the concrete institutions of history,
such as the temple. And, emphatically, modern folks are little disposed to
spoil the attractions of beauty and abundance with the repentant recollection
of their sins.

I am thinking of a line I have heard times out of mind: “I can worship
much better out in the woods (or at the beach, or on the mountains, or on the
golf links—take your pick) than I can in church.” Well, yes, of
course, you can, dear. Indeed, if I manage to get a Sunday off, I may just
come and join all you wonderful people out there in the woods—on our
knees, eyes heavenward, faces to the rising sun, arms outstretched to the horizon,
minds rapt in wondrous contemplation at the grandeur of it all.

What we won’t be able to claim for that religious effort, however,
is the support of Psalm 65. This prayer, in which God is praised in gratitude
for the beauty and abundance of his creation, does not begin with nature, but
with an institution of a particular history. That is to say, the temple: with
all its ritual, its rules and rubrics. The temple: with the very mixed and
often tragic history embodied in its stones and the upward thrust of its arches.
The temple: where sinful Israel regularly assembles to beat her breast and
remember who she is. It is to the temple that all flesh is summoned— omnis
caro veniet—to praise, render vows, and repent of sins.

When this is done—and in the context of its doing—then may we
safely stride across the plentiful fields and climb those mountains girt about
with strength. It is important to be sure that when the valleys “laugh
and sing,” their hymn ascends to the God of the temple, and not to Pan
or Baal or Mother Earth or any of the others who rashly advance their claims
on nature. Otherwise, I’m afraid, there will be precious little difference
between “the raging of the sea, and the noise of his waves, and the madness
of the peoples.” •

Patrick Henry Reardon is pastor of All Saints Antiochian Orthodox Church in Chicago, Illinois. He is the author of Christ in the Psalms, Christ in His Saints, and The Trial of Job (all from Conciliar Press). He is a senior editor of Touchstone.

“The Temple & the World” first appeared in the June 2009 issue of Touchstone. If you enjoyed this article, you'll find more of the same in every issue.

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